


The Story Continued

by Myxini



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fallen Castiel, Gen, Men of Letters Headquarters, Post-Season/Series 08 Finale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-09
Updated: 2013-07-26
Packaged: 2017-12-18 06:39:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/876754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Myxini/pseuds/Myxini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The bunker’s not as quiet as it used to be, what with the prophet of the Lord and the angel-no-more all moved in, not to mention the King of Hell chained in the basement. Sam’s brain is crapping out on him (again), Castiel can’t quite get the whole eating-and-sleeping thing down, and Dean hates helplessly watching them struggle. Yet they soldier on, because that’s what makes a good story. And a good story is all Metatron wants.</p>
<p>Post-S8. Probably no slash, but lots of bromance planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Where We Left Off

Sam remembered having this coloring book. It was full of cartoon dinosaurs drawn in thick black lines, printed on thin pages that were tattered and dog-eared because he used to take the thing around with him everywhere. No matter where their dad left them, he could always pull out his baggie of crayons and scribble. He’d never cared about staying in the lines; he just loved laying down dark, thick layers of colored wax, pressing as hard as he could, wearing his crayons down to stubs. 

He remembered all this in blinding, vivid detail. “The… the Triceratops w-was my f-favorite. I cried when I r-ripped the page out by accident. And you-” He broke off as a wave of pain fried his thoughts. Dammit. It would so much easier to tell Dean all this if the splitting headache would just go away. 

“Sammy! Take it easy.” A pair of rough hands prodded at his shoulders, brushed his cheek. 

The pain subsided. Sam cracked his eyes open and squinted up at his brother’s blurry face with a faint smile. “…Dean, you made it into a paper airplane for me.” 

“That’s, uh, that’s great, Sammy.” Something cold and damp was pressed against Sam’s forehead. He shivered and groaned. Dean’s voice seemed to come to him from somewhere far away. “Keep that cloth against your noggin, all right? We gotta bring your fever down. I’ll check back in an hour.” 

“You called it the… the Triceraplane… and y-you showed me… how to …uh, throw it… we hit that… old lady… the one… with the… uh… dog….” 

Sam was having a hard time remembering how his voice worked. In fact, his entire body felt like it was drifting out of his control. It was annoying, because he still had so much to tell Dean. But on the other hand, the fuzzier his body got, the less he could feel the pain, and the clearer the memories grew…. 

Sam let himself be swept away. 

\- - - 

Dean grabbed a beer from the kitchen on his way to the library. 

Kevin sat at the library table, sipping a mug of coffee as he pored over his spread-out notes. The kid had his own room in the bunker, but he preferred to work out here. “How’s Sam?” he asked without looking up. 

Dean cracked open his beer as he plopped into the chair adjacent. “Still thirty-one flavors of crazy.” He took a swig before asking, for what had to be the hundredth time in three days, “You’re sure there’s nothing for him on the demon tablet?” 

Kevin shot Dean a sad look. “I checked again last night. Can’t find anything on what happens if you stop the trials partway through. Sorry.” 

Dean’s fist tightened around his bottle. He was tempted to yell, to demand that Kevin come up with some sort of solution, because his little brother was down the hallway cooking to death, goddammit. But he was too tired to be very angry. Besides, the kid couldn’t help that God had forgotten to pencil in a way to bail on the trials. 

He scrubbed a hand across his face and glanced at Kevin’s paper explosion. “What’s that you’re working on now?” 

“A full translation of the angel tablet.” 

Dean snorted. “An angel handbook is really gonna come in handy now that all the freaking angels are gone.” 

“There’s at least one left,” Kevin reminded him. 

“What do you mean, _at least_ one? There’s _only_ one—Metatron.” 

Kevin shrugged. He seemed to realize he’d touched a nerve and had the sense to look slightly uncomfortable. “All I’m saying is… we don’t know exactly what happened, and we won’t know how much Castiel knew about the whole thing until—” 

Dean stood abrupty. “You listen to me. Cas was tricked. He would never have done this knowingly. Never.” He turned and headed for the door. “I need some air.” 

Kevin frowned at Dean’s receding back. Then he rolled his eyes and put on his headphones. 

\- - - 

Dean leaned against the cold brick next to the bunker’s front door. He stared out into space, taking long gulps of beer of trying not to think about anything. 

As such, it took him a few minutes to notice the solitary figure climbing up the hillside from the road. 

He squinted. The visitor was still pretty far away, but there was no mistaking him. Nobody else else wore that much tan. 

Dean set down his half-empty bottle and took off running. “Cas! Cas!” 

They met on the path, halfway up. 

Castiel was completely out of breath. “Hello… Dean….” he panted. 

Dean looked Cas up and down. Took in the rumpled, dirt-streaked clothes and the shine of grease in the messy hair and the haggard expression, all too familiar to Dean, of a man who has spent long hours on the road. He clapped his hand against Cas’s shoulder and fixed him with a serious gaze. “Cas… what the _hell_ did you do?” 

Cas dropped his eyes to the leaf litter below. “Something… very foolish, I’m afraid.” 

\- - - 

“So it was all for a spell, the whole time? The Nephilim, that cupid bow we got?” 

“Yes.” Cas was leaning heavily against a bookshelf. Dean had told him to take a seat at the table twice already, but the stubborn bastard insisted on standing. 

“And the final ingredient was your angel mojo?” 

Cas closed his eyes and nodded silently. 

“Spell, not trials. Huh, that explains why I haven’t been able to find anything on here,” said Kevin, tapping the angel tablet. “I’ve been looking in the wrong subsection.” 

“So you were one of those fireballs, Cas?” Dean quirked his eyebrows. “A shooting star in a trenchcoat?” 

“I don’t think so. I woke up on Earth shortly before the others fell. I… watched it happen.” Castiel’s lips twitched slightly. “Afterwards, I hitchhiked my way here.” 

Kevin was staring thoughtfully into space. Dean could practically see the little cogs of his AP brain spinning inside his skull. “You know what I don’t understand? What’s Metatron’s master plan?” 

“There is no master plan,” said Cas. “All he wanted was revenge.” 

“No, kid’s got a point,” said Dean. “Metatron’s already kicked out the royal family, so what now? You think he’s just gonna sit on his ass up there, enjoying the silence and sipping martinis?” 

Cas shook his head. “I don’t know.” 

Dean pressed his fingers to his temple. “Well, we can worry about that later. I got bigger problems right now.” 

“Sam?” asked Cas. “He’s still sick, isn’t he?” 

“How’d you know?” 

“It’s not hard to tell from your behavior when Sam is in danger.” 

Dean frowned. He wasn’t sure he liked being so obvious. 

“But,” Cas continued, “I knew he couldn’t have gone through with the third trial. If he were dead, you would be a nonfunctional wreck.” 

“Yeah, well,” snapped Dean. “He’s sick _and_ crazy now, which is awesome. Maybe you can take a look at him later, tell me what you think.” 

Cas paused. “Of course, I would be happy to offer my opinion. But I… don’t know how much help I can be, since… well, I’m—” 

He was interrupted by his own stomach, growling loudly. 

Dean raised his eyebrows. “Cas, you’re….” 

“Human.” Castiel’s gaze dropped to the floor. “And it’s been a long time since I’ve eaten.” 

Dean nodded, trying to reconcile all this in his head. He knew, logically, that Cas wasn’t angeled up anymore. But it still weirded him out, seeing the guy who usually materialized two inches behind him having to walk up a hill, the guy who used to turn up his nose at food suddenly needing to eat. “Well, uh, the kitchen’s stocked. Why don’t I show you how to heat up a can of soup?” 

Castiel nodded and pushed himself off the bookcase. “Thank you, Dean.” He drew a short breath. “I suppose I’m going to need to know such things from now on.” 

\- - - 

The can opener was slightly rusted and battered from years of being carried around in a duffel bag. Castiel turned it over in his hands, fascinated by the way the little gears moved against each other. “Ingenious.” 

“What?” Dean shot Castiel an over-the-shoulder glance as he scraped the contents of a big red can into a pot. 

“The way you open cans,” Castiel explained. “It seems so simple, but it’s really quite complex.” 

“Huh.” A weak smile flickered over Dean’s face. “Remind me to let you take a look under the Impala’s hood sometime.” 

Castiel felt a faint smile tug at the corners of his own mouth as he watched Dean light the burner. He wasn’t sure what he had done that was so amusing, but he was glad for it. If Dean could smile, even a little, that had to mean things weren’t so bad. 

Dean set pot on to heat and turned around. “So Cas, how’re you doing?” 

“I’m… well, hungry. Tired.” Castiel tried to focus on the unfamiliar feelings that permeated his vess—no, his _body_ —tried to count them, to give them names. “My feet hurt. I’m unaccustomed to walking so much.” 

“You know that’s not what I mean,” said Dean. He sighed impatiently. “Look, man, it rained your family the other night. You got your wings and halo ripped off, and God’s secretary made you his bitch. I swear if you tell me everything is all right, I’m gonna nail you in the jaw.” 

Castiel’s eyes ran over Dean’s face, trying unsuccessfully to read it. “Dean, are you angry with me?” 

“Why would you ask that?” 

“Because you were angry when I was last here, after I escaped from Crowley, and I don’t think we ever made that right. Because… well, because I just caused the entire Heavenly Host to fall.” 

“ _Metatron_ caused the entire Heavenly Host to fall,” Dean corrected. “You just—” 

“Should’ve known better.” Castiel felt a rather sickening wave of emotion rise inside him, but he let none of it reach his face. Instead, he stared at Dean resolutely, because he wanted Dean to know that he accepted responsibility for his actions; because he did not want Dean to spare him judgment out of pity, pity that Castiel did not deserve. 

Dean shrugged and turned back to stir the soup. “Yeah, well, story of our lives.” 

A wonderful smell filled the kitchen. Castiel was taken aback by the way his mouth automatically flooded with saliva. It was as though his ex-vessel, having been a full-fledged human body before, now knew better than he did. 

Dean grabbed four bowls from the drying rack next to the sink. He poured a rather large portion into one, average portions into two, and filled the last with the dregs from the bottom of the pot. Then he dug out some spoons and handed the fullest bowl to Castiel. 

“Thank you.” Castiel took the soup. He stared down into the golden broth, with the rubbery noodles and the pinkish chicken chunks and the shiny blobs of grease floating on top. His new human instincts screamed for him to eat, but some part of him still found the whole idea a little repulsive. 

His gaze flicked towards the other bowls. “Are you going to have some?” 

“I will.” Dean grabbed the bowl full of dregs. “But first, I’ve gotta take this to the dungeon.” 

Castiel frowned. “Why?” 

\- - - 

“I never knew that such wonders could come out of a can,” said Cas as he followed Dean down the hallway. He had ditched the spoon and was happily slurping straight from the bowl. 

Dean shook his head, cracking a smile despite himself. “It’s just Campbell’s chicken noodle. Nothing special.” He paused before the door to Room 7B. “You know, Cas, you don’t have to come in with me. I can do this myself.” 

Cas lifted his chin. The effect was slightly ruined by the traces of broth around his mouth. “I’m not afraid of him.” 

“Your call.” Dean shrugged. “I sure as hell wouldn’t want to lay eyes his ugly mug while I’m eating.” He entered the room and made his way to the bookcases. Cas trailed behind him, watching intently as he grabbed the shelves and pushed them apart. 

A shadowy shape twitched in the gloom beyond, chains clanking softly. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t my second favorite Winchester. And you brought a friend. Hey Cas. Been too long since I last had my fingers inside you, don’t you think?” 

“Hello, Crowley,” said Castiel. 

Crowley sat in the middle of an enormous devil’s trap, with shackles round his ankles, wrists, and neck. “What can I do for you, boys? Knock knock jokes? Swedish massage? Menage à trois?” 

“Dinnertime.” Dean set the bowl of soup dregs on the floor and gave it a soft kick. It slid across the concrete, bumping against the leg of Crowley’s chair with a quiet splash. 

Crowley laughed. “Oh Dean. You keep trying, don’t you, because you’re too thick to get it through your skull that I’M! STILL! A BLOODY DEMON!” He let his shouts finish echoing through the dungeon before continuing, “Which means I don’t need your pitiful cooking.” 

Dean glared. “You know,” he said, “I have plans for you, and they don’t involve you starving yourself to death ‘cause you’re stubborn.” 

Crowley sighed and tossed his head dramatically. “You just don’t get it, do you? Your poor, sad little excuse for a brain can’t handle it.” He raised his voice to a mocking whine. “ _Ooh, but Crowley, you were so adorably human when we pulled you out of that church. You drenched the backseat of our beloved car in precious human tears._ Well, you clod,THAT’S BECAUSE YOU POISONED ME WITH YOUR BROTHER’S BLOOD!” He waited for the echo to die down again, then smiled sweetly. “And now it’s worn off, and here I am. Same loveable old Crowley.” 

Dean repressed a burning urge to punch loveable old Crowley in the nose. 

“Can’t say the same for your boytoy, though.” Crowley leered. “What’s the matter, Castiel? Not feeling very angelic today, are we?” 

Cas fixed Crowley with a piercing glare, raised his bowl to his lips, and took a long draught of soup. Not exactly the most badass comeback, Dean thought. But then, Cas _had_ been on the road for three days. Poor guy was probaby too fried to think of anything else. 

Crowley chuckled softly. “Yeah, thought not. You fell just like the rest of them, didn’t you? That’s right, I saw. All the angels fell and I didn’t even have to lift a finger.” 

“That’s enough.” Dean marched forward and poked Crowley in the chest. “You gonna eat or not?” 

Crowley sighed. “No, Dean, I’m not. Do you wanna know why? Because I don’t want to and I don’t need to and the only reason you want me to is because you’re so desperate.” He narrowed his eyes. “Desperate for it all to have meant something, for your precious Sammy’s blood sacrifice to not have been a waste.” 

A red haze flashed before Dean’s vision. “Shut _up_ ,” he growled. 

“Listen Dean. Since you won’t take me at my word that I’m still a demon, why don’t you get me out of these witchy handcuffs and let me throw some furniture around?” Crowley lifted a shackled arm invitingly. 

“Oh, yeah, because that sounds like my idea of a fun afternoon.” 

“If you knew what was good for you, you’d let me go. We could go back to the way things were. Don’t you miss that, Dean? I was the King of Hell, you were an idiotic prat. We’d cross paths, share a few moments of violent passion, and go our separate ways. It was all so delightfully simple.” 

Dean snorted. “Yeah, you forgot the part where you hunted down the innocent people Sam and I saved and started slaughtering them one by one. How many were on your hit list, Crowley? Two hundred? Three? All with families, and—” 

“Enough!” Crowley’s voice rang out, reverberating off the dungeon walls. 

Dean rasied an eyebrow. “What, you don’t wanna hear about your greatest hits?” 

“I don’t have time for your stupidity,” Crowley hissed. “Here’s the bottom line. You let me go, and I’ll return to my business and leave you to yours. You keep me here, and Abaddon is going to her nasty little paws on my domain. You don’t want that, because Abaddon is a ruthless, ambitious, dangerous piece of filth. Yours truly would be happy to retire to the pit and enjoy some peace and quiet. Maybe a read a book. Sip a mug of warm baby blood. Not Abaddon. She’ll want to expand, to conquer. She’s not going to rest until she’s on top… and you’re dead.” Crowley lifted his arm again, jingling the chain. “So. I think you’ll agree that it’s in both of our best interests for you to take these off and let us go our separate ways.” 

Dean paused. Let Crowley believe he was actually considering it. Savored the moment. Then he smiled coldly. “Nah, I think I’ll keep you around. You make a great conversation piece.” 

Crowley’s eyes glittered. “You ignorant… little… sod.” 

Dean picked up the bowl from Crowley’s feet and stepped out of the devil’s trap. “C’mon, Cas. I’ll show you where the shower is.” He grabbed the ex-angel’s arm and pulled him out the dungeon, slamming the bookcases shut on Crowley’s hate-filled glare.


	2. Fetch Quest

Castiel woke feeling stiff and sluggish and extraordinarily disoriented. 

He sat up. Too quickly—his head spun. With a soft sigh of annoyance, he pressed his fingers to his brow until the dizzy spell passed. 

Castiel had never been fond of sleep. In the past, it had always come hand in hand with being drained of power or badly injured. But even more so than sleeping, he disliked waking up. The brain-fog was unpleasant and counterproductive. Another of the human body’s frustrating design flaws. 

He extricated himself from the covers and slid out of bed. There was no clock in this little bedroom, nor was there a window. He could hear nothing from beyond the door, though that didn’t mean much. His hearing was not as sharp as it had once been. 

He changed before he left the room, because he had no intention of walking around the bunker in the T-shirt and old pair of shorts Dean had lent him to use as pajamas. The borrowed jeans and flannel shirt didn’t appeal much to him either, but Dean had insisted that his usual outfit had to be washed. Dressing was an awkward process. Putting the right limbs in the right holes was surprisingly difficult. 

As Castiel stuggled with the shirt’s buttons, he noticed a strange mark on the skin of his belly. It took him a minute to realize that it was a scar, a scar where Crowley had ripped the angel tablet out of him. 

The memory made him cringe a little. That had been a particularly nasty injury, probably the worst he had ever received that hadn’t killed him. Healing it had been difficult. Angel sword injuries were always troublesome, and the internal damage hadn’t done him any favors. Dean had had to stitch up the wound just to keep what was left of Castiel’s insides from falling out. “It’s a damn good thing you’re an angel,” he had said. “It’s like scrambled eggs in there.” 

Between the time that Crowley had shot him and Metatron had taken his grace, Castiel had managed to knit his guts back together, but the skin had still been in the process of closing up. And so his body had finished healing itself in the imperfect human way. 

He ran a finger across the slightly raised mark, fascinated. It was a funny thing. So palpable. So permanent. Its jagged shape reminded him of lightning. An act of God frozen on his skin. 

He sort of liked it. 

\- - - 

In the hallway, the lights were dimmed. Castiel made his way to the library, but it was dark and quiet. So was the kitchen. It wasn’t until he walked past Sam’s room that he saw a light shining under the door. He knocked. No answer. Tentatively, he pushed the door ajar and peered inside. 

Sam was in his bed, sleeping fitfully. In a chair beside the bed was Dean—snoring, head lolling sideways onto his shoulder. According to the digital clock on the nightstand, it was 3:48 a.m. 

Castiel made his way to Sam’s bedside. He glanced from brother to brother and felt a rush of affection, mixed with a delicate desperation to make up for all the times he’d let them down. He was lucky to have them. Every other angel was probably lost and alone in the cold. This was more than he deserved. 

There was a stack of woolen blankets on Sam’s desk. Castiel picked one up, shook it out, and placed it gently over Dean. 

Dean’s eyelids fluttered. “…What the hell?” he mumbled, throwing off the blanket. “Cas? You gotta quit sneaking up on people while they sleep, man, it’s creepy.” 

“My apologies.” 

Dean groaned as he sat up straight, twisting the cricks out of his neck and back. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered. 

“You should go to bed, Dean. I’ll watch over Sam.” 

“No, I, uh….” Dean glanced at the clock. “I was zonked out for few hours right here. I’m up.” He scrubbed away his sleepiness with the back of one hand while reaching out to touch Sam’s forehead with the other. “Still burning up. Wouldn't eat his soup earlier. Least he’s slept a bit, though.” He brushed his brother’s sweaty hair off his flushed cheeks. “What do you think, Cas?” 

“Dean, I… don’t think I can be of much help. I’m sorry.” 

Dean gave Castiel one of his looks. “Listen Cas. I know you can’t smell bladder infections or whatever anymore, okay? I’m not asking you to have all the answers. I just need a second opinion. That’s it.” 

Castiel scrutinized Dean’s expression. He noted the dull, sunken eyes, the tension in the forehead, the tightness of the jaw. 

“Okay, Dean,” he said. 

\- - - 

Sam was four years old, sitting on the end of a motel bed with a storybook in his lap. Afternoon sunlight streamed through the windows, making the dusty air glitter. There was no AC and Dad was gone. Sam was hot and bored and lonely. 

He hopped down and carried his book over to Dean, who was stretched out across the other bed, sleeping with a car magazine draped over his face. Sam poked him and shook his shoulder. “Dean. Wake up. Read me a story. Dean!” 

Dean didn’t wake up. Sighing, Sam climbed up on the bed next to him. He opened the book and placed his finger beneath the first letter of the first word, the way Dean had showed him. He tried sounding things out, murmuring aloud to himself as he underlined with his fingertip, but it didn’t sound right. Not like when Dean did it. 

Eventually, he gave up and flipped through the book, looking at the pictures. He had just found his favorite illustration—a cat wearing overalls watching a worm with a bowtie drive an apple-shaped car—when suddenly, he felt dizzy. The room was so hot. His head ached. He wiped his face on the back of his hand. 

When he looked back at the page, the cat in the drawing started to talk. 

“Aw crap, he’s waking up.” The cat’s voice was deep and rough, and familiar somehow. It sounded a lot like… like Dean, actually. 

“Perhaps that’s for the best. I believe he’s dehydrated,” said the worm. Its voice was even deeper and rougher. Castiel, Sam thought. 

The edge of a cup was pressed between Sam’s lips. He struggled and coughed. Water burned on his tongue and trickled down his throat. The book fell from his hands. Still, the talking continued, though Sam could barely hear it over the deafening ringing in his ears.

“Maybe he’s not as awake as I thought,” said the cat with Dean’s voice. 

“He’s been like this ever since you abandoned the trials?” asked the worm with Cas’s voice. 

“Yeah. Thing is, it’s not the same problem he had before. There’s no coughing. No blood. Just this damn fever, and he rambles like someone’s senile grandpa.” 

“About what?” 

“Our childhood, mostly. Pass me that cloth, would ya?” 

Something damp and cool swabbed at Sam’s face. It felt good in the stuffy motel room. The texture of stucco ceiling blurred before his eyes. He couldn’t remember how he ended up lying down. 

“I only saw him like this once before,” Dean’s voice continued. “When we first met everyone’s favorite scribe. He explained it, some crap about Sam… _resonating_ with him.” 

Sam remembered that. The dusty, book-filled room in that Colorado hotel floated briefly through his vision, before the ringing in his head got so loud that it fizzled and faded away. 

“But now Metatron’s holed up in Heaven. And I don’t see how quitting the trials should have anything to do with his freaky mojo anyhow. Cas, please tell me this makes sense to you, ‘cause I got nothing.” 

There was a long pause in the conversation. Sam shifted his head and glanced around, trying to find the book again. But the world had changed around him. The cheap motel furniture was gone, replaced by the fancier décor of a double-occupancy room in the Two Rivers Hotel. 

Nonetheless, Sam still heard when Cas spoke. “You know, Dean… even while occupying vessels, angels exist as wavelengths that echo through space and time. Each angel has a unique frequency, and resonance is possible. That’s how we smite demons, actually. With a touch, we tune them to our frequency, and they resonate until they destroy themselves. If Metatron told you that Sam was tuned to his frequency, that is undoubtedly what’s wrong with him now.” 

“Why the hell would backing out make Sam _more_ in tune with the Word of God?” 

“You misunderstand. You’ve been working under the assumption that it was abandoning the trials that made Sam ill. But recall that at nearly the exact moment Sam changed his mind, the Heavenly Host fell.” 

Sam tried to sit up, but his body was too heavy. He remembered how Dean had to help him stand last time he was here… he had been too hot back then too, dripping with the ice water that burned against his skin. 

“Before, there were thousands of angels, thousands of frequencies echoing through the universe. The interference prevented Metatron’s wavelength from affecting Sam, except when he was in close proximity. But now, he’s the only true angel left.” 

“So he’s the only wavelength broadcasting,” said Dean. “Son of a bitch.” 

Sam remembered stumbling down the hallway, stuttering over his words with excitement, trying to tell Dean what he had seen earlier… all the stories he remembered, all the things he suddenly knew. 

“I’m pure,” he said aloud. 

Instantly, there were gentle hands on his shoulders. “Sammy? You okay?” 

Sam managed to open his eyes long enough to blink blearily up at Dean before falling back into the hazy hotel room. The ringing in his ears was deafening. He had to shout over it to make himself heard. “Remember, Dean? Sir Galahad? I’m pure now. Remember?” 

\- - - 

It took a solid six minutes of pounding before Kevin opened the door. 

“What the hell, Dean? It’s the middle of the night.” Kevin flicked his sleepy glare from Dean to Cas, who stood apologetically to the side, then back to Dean. 

“This is about Sam.” 

Kevin blinked, standing a little straighter. “Is he worse?” 

“Have you found anything—anything at all—on the angel tablet about resonance?” 

“Uh... no. But there’s a lot of it I haven’t read yet.” 

“Great. I’m gonna need you to get on that.” 

Kevin grimaced and stifled a yawn. “I guess it can’t wait until morning?” 

“Damn straight it can’t,” said Dean. He grabbed the prophet by the arm and yanked him out of the room. “Come on, I’ll make the coffee.” 

\- - - 

The next six hours were a personal hell of impatience and desperation. 

Dean pulled a stack of books down from the library shelves. He picked a couple that looked relevant and scanned them cover-to-cover. He made Cas read too, and when they finished the first stack, Dean got up and went to get more. It was pointless. The Men of Letters knew piss-all about angels. But Dean could not admit to himself that there was nothing he could do but wait for Kevin. He couldn’t stand feeling so useless. 

The library began to feel like a prison. He got up and went to the kitchen, where he made more coffee and plates of eggs and bacon for Kevin and Cas. He made instant oatmeal and brought it to Sam’s room. But Sam was asleep again, and Dean didn’t have the heart to wake him. So for awhile, he just sat there. _Watching,_ he told himself. _Making sure nothing gets worse._ He tried eating the oatmeal himself, but it tasted like glue and stuck in his throat and eventually he gave up. 

When he returned the library, the big-ass old-fashioned clock had just struck ten. Dean plopped down next to Cas, who was poking at the remnants of his eggs and looking sadly into his empty coffee cup. Across the table, Kevin was squinting at the tablet and rubbing his temples. Dean watched him work, fists curling and uncurling. Then he got back up and began to stalk up and down the length of the room. 

Suddeny, Kevin’s head jerked up. “I found something.” 

Dean was at his side in an instant. “Talk to me.” 

Kevin pointed to a line of writing. “So apparently, angels exist as multidimensional wavelengths of—” 

“Yeah, yeah, Cas already gave me the Geek Squad crap. Skip to the part about resonance.” 

Kevin nodded and moved down a few lines. “This whole paragraph is about how angels can use resonace to smite things. Demons and whatever. Then there’s one sentence, almost like a footnote: _A man may also resonate with the Word of God as he approaches purity.”_  

“Purity?” There was that word again. Dean hated that it kept coming up. Hated the implication that Sam had been _impure_ before all this. “Pure like what, freaking Snow White?” 

“In this context,” said Cas, “I would imagine ‘pure’ implies harmony with God and His intentions.” 

Dean snorted. “That’s hilarious. Last I remember, Sam was Lucifer’s Sunday suit and most everything even slightly holy wanted to wipe him off the map.” 

“Perhaps that what Sam meant when he said the trials made him pure. It’s possible that obeying the Word of God rinsed away the dark spots on his past.” 

“Suck up to God, get out of jail free. Sounds douchey enough to be Heaven’s rules.” Dean sighed and laced his fingers over his forehead. “Okay, so how do we pull the plug? Make Sam burn the Bible? Hire some strippers and throw a satanic orgy? 

“I don’t know.” Kevin shook his head. “The tablet doesn't say anything else. Guess we’re gonna have to hit the books again.” 

“No need,” said Cas. “I know the spell.” 

Dean gawped at him. It could not be that easy. It was _never_ that easy. 

“I found it a couple hours ago.” Cas pulled a book from the pile beside him, some hulking thing bound in black leather with evil-looking symbols on the front. “Sam mentioned something about being pure, so I bookmarked it just in case.” 

“Holy mother of God. Cas, I could hug you.” 

Cas looked at Dean and tilted his head. He said nothing, just slid the book across the table. 

Kevin grabbed it and flipped to the page with the red silk bookmark. “Depurification ritual. Yeah, right here…. Uh, the bad news is, it looks like more of a recipe than a spell. Sam needs to drink it.” 

“Gross.” Dean leaned over Kevin’s shoulder. The book was as sketchy-looking inside as it was out, all thick yellow pages and spidery text written in drippy black ink. He wasn’t exactly thrilled about having to feed his brother something cooked up according to its instructions. But the Men of Letters had left notes in the margins, so the book had to be kosher. Better to drink a Fear Factor shake than to be fried by the vibrations of a creepy angel in a sweater. “So what needs to go on the shopping list?” 

Kevin scanned the page. “Looks like… the juice of two apples, a crushed clove of cinnamon, three drops of vanilla extract—” 

“You’re kidding.” 

“Surprisingly normal, right? …Oh wait, here we go. Six drops of the blood of one who stands with his back to God.” Kevin frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean? A demon?” 

Dean stood. His chair fell over with a resounding crash. “No. No freaking way. We are _not_ giving Sam demon blood under any circumstances.” 

“All right, all right. It was only an idea. I’m sure there are lots of things that God thinks has turned their back on him. What about a witch?” 

Dean groaned. “Isn’t there something more harmless? Like an athiest?” 

“Um….” Kevin racked his brains. “How about a fallen angel?” 

Dean stared at Kevin. Kevin stared back at Dean. 

Together, their eyes slid to Castiel. 

Cas’s jaw tightened. “I don't know why you’re both looking at me. I’m _human_ now. Not an angel. Not even a fallen one.” He paused. “However, Kevin’s idea is a good. If we can find one of my brothers or sisters, perhaps they will spare us some blood.” 

 “Okay. Okay, awesome.” Dean began to pace again. His head was swimming. “Uh… where do we start?” 

“I’m not sure.” Cas looked thoughtful. “If you had no earthly home, scant knowledge of the rules of human society, and little to no practice using the body you were forced into, where would you go?” 

“Good point,” said Dean. “Insane asylum it is, then.” 

\- - - 

In the dank, murky depths of the Winchesters’ dungeon, everything was still. 

Until suddenly, it wasn’t. 

A deep rumble shook the room. Chains clattered. The ceiling shed crumbs of grime. From his shackle-ridden chair, Crowley watched through narrowed eyes as massive crack rent the floor, slicing through the devil’s trap surrounding him. 

Everything fell still. Then the dungeon’s secret door swung open, revealing a slender silhouette. 

Crowley smiled sweetly. “Abaddon. How are you, darling?” 

“Cut the suck-up act, Crowley. We both know where you and I stand.” She stepped neatly across the crack in the floor. “Nice place you got here, by the way. Looks like you’re really moving up in the world.” 

“I was just starting to feel at home, too.” Crowley sighed and tipped his head back, exposing his neck. “Well. Get it over with, then. 

She laughed. “You think I’m going to kill you?” 

“I’m not thick, sweetie. I just have one last request. I’d be obliged if, after I’m dead, you’d arrange my middle finger so that when the Winchesters find my body, I—” 

Abaddon snapped her fingers and the chains that bound Crowley exploded into dust. 

There was a moment of tense silence. 

She tipped her head, a cold smile tugging at her perfectly lipsticked mouth. 

Slowly, Crowley stood, rubbing the marks around his wrists. “Let me get this straight,” he said. “I’m the only thing standing between you and Hell’s throne. The Winchesters chain me up and leave me to rot. So you… break into the Winchester History House and set me free again. Naturally.” He smirked. “Tip top way to stage a coup. You oughta write a book.” 

“You don’t scare me, Crowley.” Abaddon’s voice echoed through the dungeon. “I’ve already taken the throne. And believe me, if I felt even the slightest bit threatened by you….” She raised her hand, and Crowley flew across the dungeon and slammed into the wall behind her. She wheeled around, pinning him to the stone with the fist clenched at her side, and brought her face so close to his that his winded gasps rustled the stray wisps of her hair. “…You would already be dead.” 

She unclenched her fist, letting him collapse to the floor. “Strip away the crown and you’re just a common crossroads demon. I’m a Knight of Hell. I’m exponentially more powerful than you could ever dream to be.” 

Crowley got to his feet, brushing off his suit resentfully. “So why release me at all, then?” 

“Because I have work for you.” 

“Oh, I’m flattered.” Crowley rolled his eyes. “Come on. You have legions of demons to do your dirty laundry for you. Any job you saved just for me is gonna be a suicide mission.” 

“It’s nothing like that. Let’s just say that I require a specialist. And your resume is promising.” 

Crowley scowled. “Sorry, sweetheart, but I don’t think I want to play your game.” 

The corner of Abaddon’s mouth twitched. “Sorry, honey, but I don’t think you have a choice.” 

She lunged forward, seized Crowley by his lapels, and in an instant, they were gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The storybook Sam’s reading in his memory/dream is supposed a Richard Scarry book. Anybody else remember Huckle Cat and Lowly Worm?


	3. Plot Heavy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this chapter took so long… I encountered a slight setback in that I read the infamous Twist and Shout and had to take a few days to write something sappy and shippy in attempt to repair the massive hole in my heart. (No dice, by the way.)
> 
> A million thanks to those of you who have left kudos and especially those who have commented. I appreciate it so much!

The car was unusually quiet on the drive to Lincoln.

Dean didn’t put the radio on because honestly, he hadn’t had a proper night’s sleep in days and he didn’t think his brain could handle any killer guitar riffs right then. Beside him, Cas was sitting stiff as a statue, looking pointedly out the window. Dean got the idea that he was really hoping to be left alone.

Tough. Dean had questions.

“So Cas, I gotta ask you. What makes you different from all the others? I mean, why are they still angels, only fallen ones, but you’re human now?” 

Cas shifted slightly in his seat. “Must we discuss this now?” 

Dean huffed impatiently. “Uh, yeah. If you haven’t noticed, Heaven needs its ass saved and I’m sick of working with half-truths.” He hated himself for sounding so harsh, but his headache was pissing him off and this wasn’t helping. “Come on, Cas, you can trust me with your angel secrets, okay?” 

“You know that’s not the problem,” said Cas flatly. He sighed and opened up. “The others are still angels because they retain their grace. They are simply cut off from Heaven, the way I was back when we were stopping the Apocalypse. Do you remember?” 

“How could I forget the glory days?” said Dean sourly. “Yeah, I remember. You had to eat, sleep, the whole nine yards.” 

“The difference between a human and a completely fallen angel is merely technical. They are practically mortal.” 

“Huh. So what about when we were fighting the Leviathans? You know, back when you were…” He lifted one hand from the wheel and twirled it at his temple. “You were fallen then. But you still had your mojo.” 

“I was fallen, but not cut off. One does not always lead to the other. An angel who is cut off always falls, but a fallen angel may not be cut off, depending on their rank within—” 

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry I asked. But the bottom line is, you’re just a regular joe now?” 

“I’m… do you remember Anna?” 

“Uh….” Dean had banged her in the backseat of this very car… then later regretted it when she tried to kill his brother. It was kind of hard to forget Anna. 

“My current condition is similar to the state she was in when you met her. Only I was not reborn, as Metatron chose to set me on Earth in this body.” 

“What happened to Jimmy from Pontiac?” 

“Jimmy Novak left my vessel and passed on to Heaven long ago.” 

“Oh. All things considered, that’s probably a good news.” Dean shot Cas a glance that he hoped came off as encouraging. “Hey, if you’re like Anna, that means all we gotta do is shove your grace back in. You can angel up again.” 

Castiel turned back to the window without answering. 

\- - - 

“Hi, we’re here to see a patient in your psych ward. Checked in yesterday. He, uh—” Dean lowered his voice conspiratorially _“—thinks he’s an angel.”_  

The hospital receptionist didn’t look up. “Sign in, please.” 

Dean grabbed a pen and scrawled “Ed Fisher” on the sign-in sheet, figuring it was best to ditch the rock psuedonyms so long as he was going without the extra clout of an FBI badge. “We think he might be an old friend,” he explained as he passed the sheet to Cas. “Be nice if we could tell his mother where he is, you know?” 

“Sure.” The receptionist clearly didn’t care. She glanced down at the sign-in sheet. “If you’ll just come this way, Mr. Fisher and Mr…..” She did a double take. “Uh… Cas-teel?” 

“Cas-ti-el,” Cas corrected her. 

“Right. I’m sorry, but I’m going to need your last name as well.” 

Cas’s forehead scrunched up. “I don’t have—” 

“Novak. His last name is Novak,” said Dean quickly. He felt like kicking himself. He should’ve remembered that lying about his identity wasn’t second nature to Cas, the way it was for him. In the privacy of the elevator, Dean muttered, “Use a fake name next time.” 

Cas shrugged. “I’m not in any human databases.” 

“Yeah, well, your real name is weird. It draws attention that we don't need.” 

Cas gave him a withering look and but didn’t argue. 

The nurse who escorted them into ward was way too cheerful for her own good. Dean felt like he’d walked into the friggin’ Stepford Wives as she introduced them in a sugary voice. “You’ve got visitors, Nathaniel! Some friends of yours.” 

The man sitting in on the bed looked up. When he saw them, his eyes nearly bugged out of his head. “T-That’s Dean Winchester!” he spluttered. 

The nurse raised her eyebrows. “Like the serial killer?” 

“Ha!” Dean forced a laugh. “Oh, wow, would you look at him, he’s… really lost it!” 

Nathaniel was shaking, he was so excited. He pointed to Cas. “And that’s angel! He’s an angel, like me, I swear it.” 

“Yep, totally delusional.” Dean grinned at the nurse. “Thanks, sweetheart, we’ll just be a few minutes.” 

The nurse beamed at him and moved to make a bed on the other side of the room. 

Nathaniel was in tears at this point, and wringing his hands. It wasn’t hard to see how the poor guy ended up in a psych ward. “C-Castiel….” 

“I’m sorry that you’ve ended up here, Nathaniel.” 

“It’s been awful. I was forced into this vessel, though I haven’t taken one in thousands of years. Nothing’s working right, I have to eat, I have to sleep. And I saw the others. Coming down like rain. We all fell, Castiel, we all…. Do you know what happened?” The tears spilled down Nathaniel’s cheeks. “What did we do wrong?” 

Cas froze. A haunted expression crossed his face, and Dean could practically taste the guilt radiating off him. “Well… I—” 

“It was Metatron,” Dean interrupted. “He cast a spell that tossed you all out.” 

Nathaniel’s tearful gaze snapped up. “Dean Winchester,” he said thickly. “I never thought I’d meet you in person.” 

“Yeah, well here I am, so shut up and listen. Metatron threw you all out of Heaven. Had some sort of temper tantrum because he didn’t get his way a few thousand years ago. You didn’t do anything wrong.” 

Nathaniel considered him with bloodshot eyes. “It’s kind of you to comfort me,” he mumbled. “But we must have angered our Father somehow. This would not have happened if He hadn’t willed it.” 

“Uh, no. It was all Metatron. Trust me, God didn’t have this one written out in his day planner, okay?” 

“Everything is part of our Father’s grand design.” Nathaniel’s voice lost its tremble. “All that happens is part of the plan that He has laid out for us.” 

Dean groaned. Here was yet another reason why he generally hated angels. “I don’t believe it. How many times are Sammy and I gonna have to screw over fate before you realize it’s possible?” His headache was worsening, and he suddenly felt that he had to get away before his patience snapped. “Cas, stay here and straighten things out with the guy while I go ask the nurse a few questions.” 

He turned and stalked across the ward, barely managing to paste on a cheesy smile before the nurse turned to address him. He pulled out the old flirting routine to quesiton her, simply because it was easy and generally got him the answers he wanted. The nurse was pretty, but Dean couldn’t bring himself to care. He hadn’t really cared about pretty girls since Purgatory. 

“He was brought in by an ambulance,” the nurse revealed, once Dean had got her all blushing and giggly. “He’d fallen down some stairs, dislocating a shoulder and spraining an ankle. He nearly attacked the EMTs, insisting he was an angel of the Lord. At first, we thought drugs. But he was clean, just dehydrated and half-starved. There was no ID and he wouldn’t give us a last name, so we have no idea who he really is. We’ve been waiting for someone who knows him to come and pick him up.” She looked at him hopefully. “You said you thought he was an old friend?” 

Dean paused, considering his answer. They could take Nathaniel to the bunker. There was more than enough space, although the thought of adding a overemotional angel to the roster when they already had a grumpy prophet, a clueless emergent human, a feverish babbling headcase, and the King of Hell around made Dean feel kind of faint. 

But maybe a hospital wasn’t a bad place for Nathaniel to stay, at least for now. If he was going to throw himself down stairwells, it was probably better that he stayed someplace where he could be taken care of properly. 

“He’s not the guy we thought he was,” he told the nurse. “Sorry.” 

He glanced over his shoulder, back at the two men sitting on the bed. Nathaniel was crying again. Cas was stoic as always, but Dean could tell by the slump of his shoulders that inside, he was pretty messed up too. 

There were thousands like them, out there. Thousands of broken angels. 

Dean rubbed his aching temples and wondered what the hell he was doing to do. 

\- - - 

It was more than a little awkward, sitting at Nathaniel’s bedside and watching him cry. Castiel considered trying to comfort him, but decided it was pointless. There’s really nothing you can say to someone whose entire existence has been invalidated. 

“Have you seen any others?” Castiel asked once the tears had slowed slightly. 

Nathaniel gulped and shook his head. “You’re the first.” 

“Likewise.” 

There was silence, during which both of them thought about the friends and colleagues who were currently lost and alone and possiby dying, somewhere upon Earth’s vast surface. 

Castiel cleared his throat. “Nathaniel, I came here to ask for a favor. Sam Winchester is gravely ill. We require the blood of a fallen angel to cure him.” 

“Fallen angel....” Nathaniel’s eyes clouded with grief. “I never thought I…. I always tried to do my duty to our Father. I… never thought….” He broke off, giving Castiel a curious look. “Can you not supply the blood yourself?” 

“No.” 

Nathaniel lifted his chin, and for the first time, there was a touch of heavenly haughtiness in him. “That’s curious. You fell long before I did, Castiel. In fact, you’ve strayed so far from the duties assigned to you that in the past, I’ve questioned how you can still call yourself an agent of God.” 

Castiel pushed away the sting of the insult. “I cannot supply the blood, Nathaniel. Will you cooperate or not?” 

“Sam Winchester trapped our brothers in a cage and thwarted the Apocalypse. Why should I help him?” 

“Because he and Dean are the only two people in existence who have a chance of returning you to Heaven.” 

Nathaniel closed his eyes. A fresh wave of tears seeped between the lids. Then he nodded slowly. “Do you have a knife?” 

Castiel slipped a penknife and a small vial from the pocket of his borrowed jeans. Nathaniel held out his arm. Glancing over his shoulder to make sure the nurse wasn’t looking, Castiel cut into Nathaniel’s wrist and collected the blood that welled up. 

“It’s unfortunate that neither of us can heal that. It’s going to hurt for awhile. My apologies.” He grabbed a wad of Kleenex from the box beside the bed and showed Nathaniel how to press it against the wound. 

They both watched bleakly as a bloodstain bloomed on the tissues. 

Dean returned from his conversation with the nurse. “Hey Nate, you know how to use a phone?” 

Nathaniel didn’t, so Dean pulled out his cell phone and taught him. was funny, Castiel thought. Only a few years previously, he’d been as clueless about mortal technology as Nathaniel. Now dialing a phone seemed intuitive to him. Somehow, he’d grown so human. Even before he’d _actually_ become human. 

Once Nathaniel got the hang of the buttons, Dean took out a scrap of paper and scribbled down some digits. “This is my number. You ever need any help, you give me a call. And let me know if you run into any more angels. Got it?” 

Nathaniel nodded weakly. 

As they turned to leave, he let out a choking cry. “Wait! Castiel!” 

Castiel turned to look back at him. 

“What… what should I do?” 

Castiel felt a twinge of empathy. “I’m sorry, Nathaniel. I can’t tell you that.” 

Nathaniel’s eyes were wide—forlorn and terrified. He was a soldier without orders, a child without a father, a computer with no program to run. Castiel understood. He remembered what that was like. 

Dean’s hand clapped against his shoulder, and gently turning him away from the fallen angel. “Come on, Cas. You hungry? I could go for some food.” 

\- - -

They stopped at a diner on their way back to Lebanon. Castiel would’ve been perfectly happy just ordering coffee, but Dean insisted that now he was human, he needed to eat something with substance. “Get the bacon cheeseburger. It’s like nothing you ever dreamed.” 

 “I’m not overly fond of burgers,” Castiel reminded him. 

“Go for the BLT then. The bacon is what’s important.” Dean grinned slightly. “I gotta teach you how to eat like a man before Sam wakes up. I let him get to you and you’ll be all obsessed with... _vegetables.”_  

Castiel was not adverse to the idea of vegetables. But he ordered the BLT anyway. “It’s not bad,” he concluded after a bite. “I think I may grow fond of tomatoes.” 

“Good, that’s good.” Dean’s voice was a vague mumble. He seemed to be staring through the table. His fingers fiddled absently with a french fry. 

“Are you all right?” Castiel asked. 

“Uh — yeah… ‘course I am.” Dean shook himself, picked up his burger, and took a big bite. “Old Nate pissed me off, that’s all,” he said through the mouthful. “I hope all the angels we run into aren’t going to be like that.” 

“It’s not his fault,” said Castiel carefully. “To an angel, falling is the ultimate disgrace. To fall so suddenly, without any warning… it will be difficult for most of them to understand.” 

“Yeah, I get that. It just makes me sick, all of that ‘God’s plan’ crap.” 

“Nathaniel is rather traditional. He was always very skeptical about the idea of free will. I believe he was one of Naomi’s followers.” 

“Huh.” Dean raised an eyebrow. “So you screwed over his boss. Hope that didn’t make things awkward.” 

Castiel poked at a shred of lettuce that fallen out of his sandwich. “He seemed to have bigger concerns. Though I was surprised. I thought he might try to kill me, considering….” He paused, not even sure what to call that span of time that he had spent drunk on the souls of Purgatory. “…The things I did. I… I killed many of his friends.” 

“Yeah, well, whose friends didn’t you kill?” There was a pause, as Dean seemed to realize that his statement hadn’t been terribly heartening. “Crap, that didn’t come out right.” He shook his head, blinking, and Castiel couldn’t help but notice how weary and ill he looked. 

“Dean,” he said. “You need to rest.” 

“Yeah, well, no time for that.” 

“I’m serious. You don't look well at all.” 

“You know what Cas, shut up. I’m fine.” Dean pulled some crumpled bills out of his pocket, threw them on the table. “Come on. We gotta stop at a grocery store and get apple juice.” 

They drove down the freeway in silence. 

Castiel stared straight out the windshield at the long stretch of gray asphalt and tried not to think about flying. 

\- - - 

Bad news greeted them at the Batcave door in the form of Kevin’s worried face. “Dean, we have a problem. Crowley’s gone.” 

“Gone? What do you mean, _gone?”_  

“I mean I went in to check on him and the dungeon’s empty.” 

Dean felt what was left of his brain fall down and give up. He could only manage two words: “Dammit! How?” 

“He had help. I’m guessing this isn’t his.” Kevin held up a piece of white cardstock with the words _I.O.U ONE DEMON_ written in big, loopy cursive letters. The note was signed with a bright red lipstick kiss. 

“Abaddon,” Dean growled. 

“How did she get in?” asked Cas, who was standing behind Dean with a plastic jug of Juicy Juice in his arms. “You said this place was protected.” 

“The dungeon is a weak spot. Can’t put too much demon warding in a place built to hold demons.” Dean rubbed his eyes. What a goddamn nightmare. “Screw Crowley, we’ll worry about him later.” He pushed past Kevin and made his way into the library. “Where’s the Usborne Book of Satanic Rituals?” 

\- - -

In a dark, dripping corridor deep in the bowels of Hell, a pair of demons walked and talked, their voices raised to be heard over the screams and groans of the tormented.

“I see you’ve redecorated,” said Crowley. He paused to glance through a metal grate in a cell door, scoffing when he saw the meathooks and daggers that pierced the bloody soul beyond. “Honestly, I’m disappointed. You’ve gone back to the classics. I expected you to have more… _je ne sais quoi_.”

“Oh, wait until I give you the full tour,” said Abaddon with a smirk. “This is just a little subsection I keep traditional for nostalgia’s sake. It relaxes me.” She flicked her fingers at a bloody form slumped in its chains on a nearby wall. Fresh screams echoed down the hallway, and she tipped her head back luxuriously, drinking them in. “Mmm.”

Crowley’s spine stiffened slightly. “Enough theatrics,” he snapped over the noise. “What do you want from me?”

Abaddon lowered her hand, and the wailing died down into soft sobs. “Crowley, Crowley, Crowley. Don’t you know that patience is a virtue?” She laughed at her own joke, then continued more seriously. “Since I arrived down here, I’ve heard all sorts of fascinating stuff about what you got up to during your time as King of Hell. One thing in particular caught my attention.”

“Ooh, let me guess. The baby blood jacuzzi I had installed? The rumors are true, you know, the bubble jets are to die for.”

“Your work tracking down the Word of God, actually,” said Abaddon lightly. “I’d like you to get back to that.”

Crowley’s face darkened. “Those maddening little tablets, really? You don’t think they’re a bit passé? Yesterday’s news?”

“What can I say? Sometimes, you take a leaf from the book that came before you.” She flicked her fingers at the nearest cell door. A terrible wail and the sounds of rattling chains emanated from within. “Don’t fix what isn’t broken, right?”

Crowley raised his own hand, and the wailing stopped. He rounded on Abaddon. “You think I can just sneak under the Winchesters’ noses and nick a few of their prize possessions? Not to mention their favorite prophet? You’re overestimating both my strength and my stupidity, toots.”

“I don’t care about _those_ tablets. Use the mush between your ears, Crowley. The angels are already taken care of, and the Winchesters aren’t going to lock up Hell, not as long as it’ll cost precious Sammy his life.”

“So what is it you want?”

“Let’s see.” Abaddon’s tone was dripping with condescension. “So far we’ve had three tablets. Leviathan, Demon, and Angel. Almost a box set. But not quite.”

Crowley’s eyes widened. “You think there’s a Human Tablet,” he breathed.

“Now you’re talking. I want you to find it.”

“What for?”

“It’s humanity’s dirty laundry. God tells all. Why wouldn’t I want a peek?” Abaddon smiled. “Plus, I’m guessing it’ll tell me how to wipe them off the face of the Earth.”

Crowley stopped dead in his tracks. “You want to kill all the humans? All seven billion of them?”

“It’ll be a new record, I’m sure.”

“Forgive me, sweetheart, but that’s possibly the STUPIDEST BLOODY PLAN I’VE EVER HEARD!” Crowley turned on her, looking disgusted. “You realize that Hell’s entire shtick depends on there being human souls upstairs for us to buy? We need the little bugs to keep churning out more of themselves. You squash them all and we have no new souls. No new power.”

“You don’t dream big enough,” said Abaddon dismissively. “I’m talking about changing the game. Imagine Hell on Earth _and_ everywhere else.”

Crowley cocked an eyebrow.

“Think about it. Heaven has never been weaker. The fearsome army of God is a tiny, broken, hopeless mess. There’s one single angel who can do so much as flutter his feathers. _One single angel_ , Crowley. Now, if I wipe out humanity, seven billion souls are sent either here or to Heaven. Obviously, we wouldn’t get all of them—”

“We wouldn’t even get half,” said Crowley bitingly.

“But we’d get enough to give us a power boost. Enough to take on that lone angel, I think.”

“Then what?”

“Then we take control of Heaven, Purgatory, and what’s left of Earth.” Abaddon’s eyes glittered. “And we redecorate.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “You want to turn the universe into one giagantic Hell, with you as the Queen?”

“That’s the idea.” She laughed softly. “Oh Crowley, can you imagine if I hadn’t been around? You would’ve wasted the greatest opportunity Hell’s ever seen. It pains me even thinking about it.”

“Look,” said Crowley. “I love eternal torment as much as the next guy. But I’m not sure I like the idea of you lording over everything in creation.”

“Better get used to it.” She smirked at him. “Now go. Bring home the bacon. Oh, and don’t try to run off. I’ll find you. And while I might not kill you—”

“You’ll make me wish you would. Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

“Glad we understand each other.” Abaddon brushed her nails across Crowley’s chin. Then she turned and strode off down the hallway. “Ta-ta for now. Do write.” She raised her hands as she walked, and a chorus of terrible screams rocked the corridor in her wake.

Crowley grit his teeth and vanished.

\- - -

“Come on, Sammy. Up you go.” Dean shoved his arm under his gigantic little brother’s shoulders and struggled to lift him. Sam groaned and lolled weakly in his grip. 

“Little help here?” Dean growled, and Cas stepped in. Together, they managed to get Sam propped up against the pillows. 

Kevin held out a coffee mug. Dean took it, trying not to look at the liquid inside. The stuff was an extremely disturbing color, like bloody pee. Feeding it to Sam made Dean’s guts squirm. But from the way his brother was twitching and moaning, sweat pouring down his flushed face, it was more obvious than ever that there wasn’t a choice. 

“Drink up.” Dean pressed the mug to Sam’s lips and tilted. 

Sam choked and tried to spit it out, but Dean was persistant. He pulled Sam’s mouth open and made him drink, made him swallow. 

Sam coughed and gasped. Then his body went limp, and he slumped down into the bed. 

 _“Crap.”_ Dean grabbed his brother’s hand, shook his shoulders. Sam’s skin, which had been burning hot just moments before, was now cold and clammy. He twitched, grabbing weakly at Dean’s wrists, and began to mutter low quick syllables that sounded like gibberish. 

“That’s Enochian,” said Cas, sounding surprised. 

“What’s he saying?” 

“He’s, uh… he’s quoting the Old Testament.” 

Sam’s voice grew louder, more urgent. The lights began to flicker, and Dean glanced furiously at the ceiling. “What the _hell_ —” 

Sam sat up, gasping.

The lights blew out in a shower of sparks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the lack of Sam. He’ll be awake in the next chapter, so hopefully that’ll make up for it!


End file.
